


When everything is quiet

by poppyfx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deathfic, Depression, Flashbacks, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Not Beta Read, Past Relationship(s), Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24788986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppyfx/pseuds/poppyfx
Summary: Dean never returned to Seamus in the Room of Requirement in 1998. He became nothing more than another entry in the casualty list, another young live lost.The war ended. The world moved on.Seamus did not.
Relationships: Past Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically some time ago I went through a Deamus phase and my brain apparently thought "that's cool and all, but how about you make it sad." Welp. Here I am.
> 
> Title's are hard. Thankfully, I'm Finnish, and thus my solution to everything is to turn to our national treasure, Tove Jansson. This fic is not beta-read because I'm a wuss and not afraid to admit it. My first language is not English, so apologies for any typos or confusing sentences.
> 
> Obviously this is not a fluffy fic, but I really stand by the "hopeful ending" tag. This fic is completely written and will be around 13k words. The first proper chapter will be posted with the prologue, others hopefully soon enough when I'm happy enough with them.

_“There are such a lot of things that have no place in summer and autumn and spring. Everything that’s a little shy and a little rum. Some kinds of night animals and people that don’t fit in with others and that nobody really believes in. They keep out of the way all the year. And then when everything’s quiet and white and the nights are long and most people are asleep—then they appear.”_

― Tove Jansson, Moominland Midwinter

* * *

His body is battered and his mind is numb but the world around him is alight with joy.

It is as if the last year of hell never happened, judging by the grins and laughter and hope that surrounds them. Seamus can see the sadness and confusion in the trio’s faces as they enter after Neville and his stupid, happy smile. They shake hands and ask questions and flinch when they first notice Seamus and his bruised, puffed up, ugly face. He almost wishes that he wouldn’t have said a word, but it is the first time in months since he’s felt useful and seen, and most importantly – he was never the silent type, after all.

All is well. Help the Golden Trio. Pity yourself later.

_Be brave, for once in your life, Seamus Finnigan._

Luna enters soon after, looking blissful as ever, happy to be in Hogwarts again. It’s almost hard to see behind her smile and gleeful tone how horrible she looks, pale and malnourished, but the air in the room still got lighter with her. Ginny, Fred, George and Lee Jordan follow her, and it is almost just like in their fifth year, the laughter and the cosy room and the hope, except Seamus’s body hurts everywhere and his mind demands proper sleep but he can’t get any and there’s no Dean and there has been no Dean since August and he’s never felt more alone and he’s had too much time to think again and his mind is lost again and

nothing really is like in fifth year, after all.

Harry leaves with Luna on an important mission, while the others stay behind with their loved ones. More people enter the room but none of them are him. Some people are evacuated, some fight, Seamus blows up a bridge and tries to stay alive, people are mauled and killed or both, Harry is dead, then he is not, then Voldemort is gone, the world is saved, all is good, all is well.

“Have you seen Dean?” he asks Neville, who is a hero now, but he hasn’t seen him.

“Have you seen Dean?” he asks Ron, who shakes his head and goes back to his friends.

“Have you seen Dean?” he asks Luna, who indeed has seen him, but it was months ago until he was taken away and then she was saved instead. He gets a warm hug from her, which feels nice, even if his face hurts when she hugs him a bit too tight.

“Have you seen Dean?” he asks Lavender when he spots her long, beautiful curls peeking from under the blood-soaked cover.

No one knows. He tries, he tries so hard, he asks anyone, but no one knows.

“Have you seen Dean?” he whispers for the millionth and final time when Aberforth sits next to him in the quiet hall when everyone has gone to celebrate outside.

He can’t even look at the old man, but he can hear the silence and feel the comforting hand patting his back, and that is when he finally feels the tears rolling on his swollen cheeks and his soul break in two.


	2. Summer

**_May 1995._ **

_“You’re a friking genius, that’s what you are.”_

_Dean rolls his eyes. “I’ve just practiced, that’s all.”_

_“A modern time Picasso.”_

_“Hardly.”_

_“Vermeer.”_

_“How do you even know Vermeer?”_

_“I amn’t dumb!”_

_“No, but you did just compare my drawing of the giant squid to Picasso.”_

_“There’s lake and trees and stuff too.”_

_“And a giant squid.”_

_“It’s good, mate. Really.”_

_Dean gives him a shy smile. Seamus had learned fast that he was not good with compliments, all the way back in their first year._

_That’s why Seamus had made his life’s mission to give him as many as possible._

_The tournament was over, and everything had gone back to as normal as possible, and people did try their best to find joy in the little things. Some played Quidditch or the Exploding Snap with newfound fervour. Others swam in the lake until their skin was wrinkled, went to bathe in the sun for a while and repeated this until sundown. Others sat in the shade and looked at their pretty best friends and their pretty drawings and made a few occasional quips to not make it weird and both pretended that it worked._

_“Do you have anything else I haven’t seen yet?” Seamus asked._

_Dean moved right next to him, radiating heat in the already warm spring day. He could’ve just as easily passed his sketchbook over, but he never did. Seamus was long ago gotten used to the casual touches, head on his shoulder, the brushing fingers under the table, a steadying hand on his back after that one time in the second year after Seamus tripped at the portrait door. He doubted if Dean even realized any of this, or if he’d seen any of curious glances directed at them, but Seamus didn’t have the heart to say anything. Happy Dean was the best Dean. And Seamus knew that nothing made Dean happier than happy Seamus._

_“Did I show you the ones I draw during the holidays? Wait, they’re somewhere here – “_

_Seamus Finnigan cast the Patronus charm three times during his lifetime, always using the same memory. His back against a tree trunk. Hot cheeks and hot spring sun bringing out his freckles. The smell of cheap shampoo as Dean leaned over. Cold fingers laid on top of his, going through the pages slower than was probably necessary. Gentle words whispered in secret. A drawing of two best friends on an adventure somewhere in Ireland, riding too-small bikes against the yellow fields and cloudless sky._

* * *

The morning rays hit his eyes as he cycled the silent road, not another soul in sight. The village was straight from an idyllic postcard, even if half the houses had been abandoned for better job opportunities in the big cities and the remaining population consists of mostly the elderly, their children who feel too guilty to leave, and the few youngsters resentful for their parents for making them stay in the dying village.

Then there’s him.

He could see some open curtains, even though it was only a Saturday morning and any decent folk should still be sleeping. Not him, though. He had a mission. Not an important one, but he was a man of his word, and if he had promised to get her parcel to Miss Knight at 9 AM Saturday morning, then that’s what he would do.

He did not expect was a letter for himself. But there it was, his name written in cursive that he did not recognize, but he could not think of a single person who would want to have anything to do with him. Instead of opening it he stashed it inside his jacket and tried to ignore about the matter entirely. He had had no letters besides bills for years and he did not want one now.

Miss Knight was there to wait for him, her fat tabby cat glaring at him by her side. She was taller than him, with a cloud of curly white hair, a wide smile, and a loud voice. Her bright yellow morning gown, a hideous sight by all accounts, was a gift from her late husband and resembled a shabbily made patchwork quilt rather than any actual garment.

Seamus had never had a grandma of his own, but he is still pretty sure that his Miss Knight is tons better than most people’s nanas.

She greets him with a raucous “Good morning, love” and a peck on the cheek. She clicked her tongue at his messy hair and by the time Louie brushed against his shin, Seamus had completely forgotten about his own letter.

“It’s from Martin”, she explains to him as he hands her the package. He knew that, of course, as her son had dutifully written the sender’s name on the package. The said son never actually bothered to send himself to his mother’s tiny village, or at least that miracle hadn’t happened once during the time Seamus had lived there. Miss Knight’s smile reached all the way to her eyes when she looked at the package and held it near like a treasure to her chest, so Seamus didn’t say anything, just like he never did.

She ushered him to the living room and went to get them tea and biscuits, even though he offered to do that. That was their ritual. Every single time Seamus offered to help, and every single time Miss Knight patted him on his cheek and told him to relax and look at the pictures. By now Seamus felt that he knew the pictures better than his own face in the mirror, but he didn’t mind. Some of the pictures were of Martin and his perfect little family all the way in Dublin; some were a shrine to Miss Knight’s husband who died young; but the best ones were of Miss Knight herself. One picture was of her on an amateur theatre stage in her youth, dressed in a cheap baroque dress. Another one was her with a silly birthday hat on her head and friends surrounding her; Seamus especially liked that one. A third was of the village itself, with her on her light blue bicycle that she later gave to Seamus. 

Miss Knight carried her precious silver tray to the living room and sat next to him. She carefully opened the package in his plain view, just like always. Sometimes Martin sent just a letter, other times some photos, and for her birthday a little gift. This time it was an entire photo album. Not a large one, but large enough to keep Seamus listening to Miss Knight for hours this time.

“Doesn’t he look smart?” she pointed at Martin in his tailored suit. He was a lawyer in the capital, living a comfortable life, with a pretty wife and pretty children. Martin himself was not much to look at; in Miss Knight’s words, her husband was ugly as a pug but the kindest man the world had ever seen.

Miss Knight didn’t look at him when she said: “His wife is switching careers now, you know. Something with computers. You’re a smart lad, you should go back to studying too.”

Seamus is not smart. He never has been. He had been only good at blowing things up, but there’s not exactly a school for making things unnaturally explode. He knew that Miss Knight just tried to be kind, but sometimes he really wished she’d try a little less.

“I’ll think about it”, he said with no intention of doing so, and turned the next page. From the corner of his eye he could see Miss Knight slump a bit before pointing at the next picture of a girl with a violin.

“Oh, look at Millie! Oh, last Christmas she played to us so _beautifully_ , you should’ve heard it!”

_I might have heard her if your idiot son visited once in a while and brought the kids to see their grandma._

  
“I’m sure she’s a proper prodigy”, he said as politely as he could. Millie in the picture looks like she would rather do literally anything else than play whatever Beethoven she was forced to play, but Miss Knight gave him a proud smile, and something inside him broke just a little bit. He has no memory if anyone has ever smiled about him like that.

An hour goes past before the whole album is finished and it was finally time for Seamus to go mown the lawn and tend to the garden. As she had more money than she needed and he too little, it was a good arrangement for both. Thankfully, Miss Knight wasn’t too picky, as he was exactly no botanist. Seamus gulped down the remains of his third cup of tea and went outside to the shed, only to be shouted back.

“Seamus!”

  
“What is it?”

“You dropped something.”

Miss Knight made her way slowly to him, her right hand holding the letter that had already been erased from his mind. He quickly reached inside his jacket and his heart missed a beat. After a quick thanks he grabbed the bloody letter, turning away before she had time to say anything more.

“Oh, we have time! Aren’t you curious what’s inside? Go ahead and read it!”

Seamus wasn’t sure if Miss Knight was just curious or if she was genuinely giddy that he apparently knew someone else besides her. Maybe it was both.

“Such a lovely day”, she said as she sat on the garden bench and tapped the seat next to her. Seamus fidgeted, torn between not wanting to disappoint her and desperately wanting to avoid whatever was written in the letter. The first feeling and his affection towards the kind Miss Knight won, in the end.

The morning sun didn’t warm him enough from the chills that spread from his chest. The letter was baby blue and decorated with wildflowers on the edges, beautiful handwritten words stabbing daggers at him letter by letter.

_You are cordially invited to the wedding of_

_Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott_

_on September 14 th 2003  
_

His eyes never reached the remaining words at the bottom of the card. The beginning of it was enough.

_Neville. You thoughtful, kind, generous idiot._

_I hate you_ so _much._

“What is it?” Miss Knight asked. Seamus knew that she was kind enough not to read the letter over his shoulder, but that didn’t mean she lacked the confidence to ask him outright.

“Nothing. Just, my mate from school is getting married. That’s all.”

She didn’t say a word. Seamus was certain that she was simply flabbergasted by the fact that he _had_ (or had had) another friend, besides a flamboyant, widowed retiree. Not only did he know someone else, but that someone else was close enough to invite Seamus to his wedding. He worried, only half-jokingly, that this fact was going to mess up with her brains irreparably.

He couldn’t believe it all himself, so how could he blame her?

Miss Knight clapped her hand at his shoulder and laughed. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. When’s the wedding then?”

“September.”

He could already see the wheels turning in her head. “Do you have suit?”

“I do have more clothes than this t-shirt and jeans, Miss Knight!” he answered, only half insulted.

“Of course I know that! I also know of your other t-shirts and other jeans, but that wasn’t the question. Do you have a suit for the wedding?”

“I don’t think I’m gonna go.”

“Don’t be a fool, Seamus, of course you’ll go.”

“…no. I don’t have a suit.”

“No matter, I’ll lend you my husband’s old one. I think you’re about the same size. A bit old-fashioned, but just say it’s vintage, darling, no one will have to know.”

He loved miss Knight. She was like a grandma he never had, but always wanted. She always smelled like green tea and cinnamon, smiled with her warm brown eyes, sneaked candy to him even though he was a grown man, and talked endlessly about everything in the world. What was going on in the telly, which one of her numerous relatives did what and when, shared stories of her wild youth and slightly less scandalous adult years. She made him feel safe and warm the way no one had since ma and –

He also hated Miss Knight, who was too smart and kind and perceptive for her own good.

“I think it’s going to rain soon. We can do this next week, alright, love?” he heard from his right, a kind, patient voice.

There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the bright blue summer sky.

Miss Knight had been an actress, after all. She knew how to hide the pity in her voice, even though she doubtlessly felt it.

Seamus nodded and rose, looking at anything but her. “Yeah. Sure look it. Thanks, miss Knight, for the tea.”

“My pleasure”, she smiled so widely Seamus was afraid her face was going to split in half.

_Just like Lavender, her face red and open and torn and –_

_Shit. It’s starting again._

“Until next week”, he muttered and rushed to his bike, escaping to his empty home with only his thoughts and long-forgotten memories to keep him company.

* * *

First year had been hell. Utter hell, to all of them. The world they knew was gone and a new, better one was in its place, but all the right people were never going to see it.

Second year had been a little better. By then he had realized how to forget that any of it had happened, that that world had ever even existed. He moved to his quiet, utterly Muggle village, did odd jobs and was quite content. It was a life. Not the one he had envisioned for himself when he was a stupid teenager with stupider dreams, but it was still a life. 

Third and fourth and fifth years Seamus was alive. That’s all he could say. Time went by and the world with it, but not him.

Then that stupid invitation came and the world forced Seamus Finnigan to open his eyes and realize that the world didn’t die in 1998.

Only Dean did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess that Miss Knight should be Mrs Knight, but she prefers to go by Miss, but she prefers Miss as she is hot and single and ready to mingle. 
> 
> I am also not Irish, have no idea what Irish English sounds like, so I tried my best googling. I have never read the books in English - only about a million times in Finnish - so absolutely no clue how Rowling write Seamus's lines. I just tried to add a few things the kind Irish people online suggested.


	3. Autumn

**_June 1996._ **

_“Congrats.”_

_“She’s very nice, Shay. Don’t be like that.”_

_“Does your ma think she’s nice too?”_

_“They haven’t met.”_

_“Well, Ginny’s very nice. I’m sure she’ll love her.”_

_“Stop being such a git! I’m trying here.”_

_“I’m trying too, Dean! I’m trying to be okay with this, but I amn’t. And I know you’re not either. I know you like me better than her.”_

_“Well, maybe I’m just tired you being so fucking clingy all the time! Do you even have any other friends, Shay? You can’t just expect me to spend time with you and only you.”_

_They were best friends for a reason. Dean knew him better than anyone and knew exactly where to hit. Seamus had other friends, and Dean knew it too, but they both also knew that none of them really mattered._

_“Like you’re any better”, Seamus stated. This time it was the other boy’s turn to flinch. “For such a nice guy you can be such an arsehole.”_

_He feels the too-slow fingers on his elbow that quite don’t reach him. Dean didn’t come after him. He had a pretty girlfriend now, who was also smart and great at Quidditch and fun and exciting. There was nothing not to like. What kind of idiot would choose a short, slow, stupid Seamus Finnigan over her?_

_Seamus hated her._

_Well, at least he tried to. His heart wasn’t in it, but how else was his 16-year-old soul supposed to feel? He couldn’t hate Dean, no matter how much he wanted to, and all he felt was utter disappointment and sorrow and those feelings needed to go somewhere. That somewhere might as well be Dean’s stupidly perfect girlfriend._

_However, a week later Seamus finds a drawing of a summer day by the lake, the giant squid waving in the background, and he forgave him._

_What else was he supposed to do?_

* * *

Hannah was as pretty as a bride could be and Neville was finally the Neville he was always meant to be. Just as kind and sweet as before, but confident and mature and loved.

This was a big fucking mistake. What had he been thinking?

_It’s Neville, Seamus. Be a nice person for once, Seamus. Go support your old mate, Seamus. It’s just a few hours, Seamus. How bad can it be?_

Oh yeah. Those things.

_Dear past Seamus, you were a massive arsehole. I hate you, with all my heart. Cordially, present Seamus._

Seamus made a very conscious choice not to go even near the punch bowl. He didn’t need his mind muddled any more than it already was. It wouldn’t make him feel any better; it never did.

_“You are so drunk.”_

_“Am not! What you laughing at?”_

_“Nothing. You lightweight.”_

_“You’re always so mean to me. What have I ever done to you?”_

_“Besides interrupting my studies, stealing my food, clinging on to me like a baby sloth, keeping me up at nights, and drawing stick figures in my drawing pad?”_

_“Baby sloths are adorable.”_

_“That’s very true.”_

_“You think I’m adorable then?”_

_The hand petting Seamus’ head stops for a moment._

_“Yeah, you’re cute”, he answers after a while. Seamus can hear the smile in his voice and the hand starts moving again. Seamus smiles too, his smile hidden on his best mate’s thigh were his head is resting. He thinks about last summer, at his place, and the same hand on his neck and –_

“Seamus! Been a while.”

It took a moment to recognize the voice, longer than it should have. They were roommates for six years, after all. Seamus gulped and turned around to see a familiar freckled face smiling at him.

“Hiya, Weasley.”

“We didn’t expect you to come.”

“Yeah”, he laughed awkwardly, shoving hands in his pockets. Ron smiled back, but it’s that same smile Seamus always sees, the only one people have shown him since school. Pitiful. Sad. Condescending.

Is that the only way he was seen these days? He used to be more, in the past. Not much, but more. He’d been fun. He’d been liked. He’d been better.

Ron nodded understandingly. An uncomfortable silence surrounded them, broken finally by the redhead. “So. How’s life?”

“Same old, same old. You? I heard you tied to knot this year too. Congrats, mate!”

_Quick topic change. No one noticed a thing. Good job, Seamus, you fucking dolt._

Neither of them mentioned the sent and unanswered invite.

Ron grinned back at him before starting his tirade. It was almost like old times, Ron talking endlessly about Hermione’s brilliance and intelligence and beauty and all that, but this time he didn’t need to shrug it off or pretend to joke about his painfully obvious infatuation.

_Was I ever like that?_ Seamus wondered. _Did I sound like that, back then?_

The talented, stunning, and overall perfect witch, according to her husband, slowly made their way to them, just as Ron had finished describing their flower arrangements in detail. Hermione laid a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder, stopping the seemingly endless flow of words.

“Yes, it was the best day of our lives, but you can take a breath once in a while, love.”

“Seamus deserves to know about the most beautiful wedding ever to take place. You didn’t mind, did you?”

“You really painted a picture there!”

“See?” Ron smiled at his wife so sweetly that Seamus felt like puking.

“I’m not sure if that was a compliment”, Hermione chuckled and patted Ron’s shoulder. “Go on now, Ginny needs rescuing from all those well-wishers.”

His old keeper-reflexes kicked in, his eyes instantly spotting his sister from the crowd.

“Well that simply won’t do”, he muttered and stomped away without a single look back.

There she was, Ginny with her huge belly and the same kind smile she had when Seamus hated her more than anything on his sixth year. It had been silly then, and it was silly now, but it was also a comforting feeling to see her again after many years and still feel that same juvenile hatred burning inside him. He had managed to avoid her so far, safe in the remote corner of the garden, until Ron had found him and then Hermione and then _her_ who shared something with Dean he never could have. It wasn’t fair. He knew Dean better than anyone, _loved_ him more than anyone, and he knew it was mutual, it must have been, before he had to go and he never came back and –

“She’s due in December”, Hermione said quietly next to him, saving him from the voice in his head. “It’s a boy.”

“That’s great. Good for them.”

“Seamus.”

When did they all become so grown-up? Even Hermione had that grown-up voice nowadays, the same one that his ma used when he was just a sad little kid who needed some comfort. It was stern, and patient, and he hated it. They all even looked so mature. Confident. People who knew what they were doing. They were teachers, aurors, healers, researchers, salespeople, entrepreneur, archivists, scribes, journalists, all that. They had families, jobs, houses and mortgage, dogs and cats and kids and hopes and dreams.

_“Shay! Come and see!”_

_“I’m coming, I’m coming – Lav, stop dragging me – “_

_His vision was filled with gold and blue and green and fire on the sky. Her arms were tied tight around his shoulders as the night sky exploded in front of their eyes as the new year dawned._

_“See, bunny? That’s going to be you in a few years. Brown and Finnigan Event Planning – working title, remember. You get to create sights like that too.”_

_Lavender always had big plans and silly dreams, and she had managed to make them Seamus’s silly dreams too._

_The only thing those dreams were used for blowing up a bridge._

_His dreams never became more than smells of powder and copper, sounds of screams and cracking bones, and, finally, silence._

Lavender was torn to pieces. Creevey chocked in his own blood. His own parents were burned in their own house as a blood traitor and a worthless muggle. Dean was never found. Carrows knew that. They knew everything. They knew all the right things to say to him, stabbed him to death with their words, torturing him inside and out, tearing his flesh and his mind inside out -

“Seamus.”

Hermione sat next to him. When did they move away from the main crowd? When did he even sit down?

“I thought you needed some space”, she said kindly to him. Her hand stroked his back in soothing motions. He couldn’t remember her ever touching him before.

“Got lost in thought”, he said and made extra effort to look her straight in the eye. Less suspicious that way, he knew. “We should get back.”

He didn’t make an effort to get up, regardless of his words. She didn’t either.

“I could recommend you some people. I saw a few before founding my current therapist. We just didn’t fit, but they could work for you, if you’d like to try.”

“We’re not talking about this. It’s a wedding, for fucks sake. Cheer up.”

Hermione didn’t seem put off by his vicious tone. Didn’t even flinch.

“Have you ever talked to anyone? About what happened?”

“It’s been five years, Hermione. Give it a rest. I’m doing fine.”

“Are you?”

He spared the both of them the embarrassment of actually answering her question. They were both certain what the real answer was, but even more certain was the fact that he was not going to admit it. Instead he chose the easy way out, out of the conversation and out of their shared past.

“We were never friends, Hermione. Don’t pretend we are now”, he snapped and rose up, ready to storm out.

Hermione stopped him, holding his arm.

“I can still remember it too. Relive it, as if I’m there again. Her laugh. Her gentle hand on my cheek before the pain. The feeling of a thousand cuts, suffocation, the burns. All of it.”

He felt a pang of shame, having forgotten what she’d gone through. But she only experienced that once, right? Not like him. It wasn’t the same. That’s why she was better, and he was not.

“All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. Not that you will ever forget it, any of it. But it will get better. You will be able to sleep again for more than a few hours at a time, and to go to your friend’s wedding and simply have fun. Not every time, but it gets easier. You don’t have to be alone.”

_Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up._

_Stop._

Seamus turned to her and forced his voice to calm down. “Listen. You’re a good woman, Hermione. But you’re not my friend. You never were. We were classmates. I was barely Harry and Ron’s friend. I don’t need this pity party. I was doing just fine before. I have a job. I have my own house. I don’t have to worry about any of that magic shit.”

He yanked his hand out and looked her straight in the eyes.

“This is the last time. I don’t want to see any of you, ever again.”

She didn’t say one more word as he walked away.

He didn’t look for Neville and thank him for the lovely party, even though he should have done that. It was for the best, really. He was in no mood to pretend to be happy and joyous on this wonderful occasion, and Neville deserved better than his old roommate sullying the mood. Neville had always been the best of them, still was, and always would be.

He was almost out of the apparition bounds when he heard his name called yet again.

“Finnigan!”

_Just a few more steps._

“Finnigan! Stop!”

_Soon this will all be over._

“What the _fuck_ is it with you people today? Leave me alone.”

“It’s about Thomas!”

His heart stopped beating, his stomach dropped, his mind was filled with only one name on endless repeat. A name he hadn’t said not even once after the few hopeful months, after which only hollow loneliness had filled him completely and never left.

The woman ran and stopped in front of him. Seamus stared at her bright red shoes, pretty things with bows on top. He couldn’t look at her. He already knew what she’d look like: the same sympathetic eyes that everyone else had. He’d had enough of that for one day.

“Who are you?”

The woman gulped.

“Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson. From Hogwarts.”

_This was a mistake. This whole day. That place doesn’t exist, hasn’t existed for five years, until this week._

He had no idea who she was. He shook his head and turned away. “Fuck off.”

Determined footsteps followed him towards the border.

“I was Malfoy’s friend.”

“Cool”, he said and increasing his pace. She did the same.

An awkward silence landed between them.

“So… you were close with Dean Thomas. I remember that.”

He halted.

Seamus didn’t need to know why she would remember that. He could guess. He and Dean had heard all they had to say back then.

She continued as he didn’t answer. “He was always nice. He didn’t have to be. Not to us, but he was. Cute, too.”

He didn’t answer. She cleared her voice and continued.

“I found something. A journal. My parent’s – they… they both died in Azkaban, you know. He passed away last month. And as the last Parkinson, I inherited everything. I couldn’t even enter their house before, as they were alive and banned me from entering, but two weeks ago I could finally get in. And I went through some of their things.”

“A journal, you said.”

“My father, he was in charge of prisoners. And I know they caught Thomas, I heard them speak about it.”

“Just go to the aurors. The party is filled with them.”

“I will. I was going to, that’s why I’m here. I mean, I was invited anyway, but I knew I wasn’t exactly wanted here. I would’ve stayed home if it wasn’t for the journal I found. But I wanted to speak to you first.”

“Can I…” he muttered and avoided her eyes.

“Yes! Yes, of course. Just wait a second…”

She pulled out a dark blue journal, too big to fit in her purse without the aid of magic. The journal was dull and unremarkable, but still in pristine shape. He saw a dog-eared page near the middle and pointed at it. Parkinson shrugged.

“I was just browsing through when I saw the name. He’s still missing and I didn’t want to be charged with tampering with the evidence or anything like that. I know as much as you do.”

“Why would you do this?”

For the first time he took a good look at her. He didn’t remember her, but he didn’t have to. There was no amount of makeup nor a dress fancy enough to cover the pallid skin, the skeletal body, the hunched posture under the pressure of her very own life.

She laughed a joyless laugh _._ “I loved them. My parents. How could I not? I have the same memories as all children with loving parents. Piggyback rides. Picnics. Decorating the Christmas tree. Reading Beetle the Bard. I know they loved me. But now I also know that they were thieves, killers, torturers. Monsters. I’m not a good person. I was even worse back then. And I just can’t stop thinking, that if maybe I would’ve thought for myself back then, questioned more, maybe found this journal…”

“Give it here.”

She obliged.

He skimmed through the pages, looking for his name. Near the end he found it, the ten letters that he had tried to forget, ten letters that defined his school years and beyond.

He couldn’t hear her even breath as they stood next to each other, both tense and lost in their own thoughts. Sounds of the party disappeared as he read on, numb and calm. Finally he gave the book back to her and kissed her cheek. Her body went stiff.

“Thank you”, he said and pulled back. She was stiff and her eyes were wide, and she didn’t even blink at his next words. “I hope you’ll burn in hell.”

She smiled back at him, a smile with no hint of life or joy in it. “That’s better than I deserve. Goodbye, Seamus Finnigan. I wish you all the good in the world.”

* * *

For the first time in five years he apparated and was surprised to find all his body parts still intact. The feeling was just as horrible as it used to be, and he still had no idea why people would do this to themselves when they could’ve taken a perfectly fine train or a bus or literally anything besides apparating.

And finally. There it was. The forgotten little house, lost to the world and time, only to be re-discovered by a former wizard who normally would’ve run the other way at feeling the wards. Outwards it looked quite like his own childhood home, with the same shade of white paint and the same wild jungle of a garden - except smelling less like burned fat and more like moss and mould.

The entrance hall was no better, spiderwebs and bugs and stale air greeting him. None of the rooms in the first room were any better. The floor upstairs creaked but didn’t fail him. Pictures clearly used to hang on the walls, as shown by the faded paint. Seamus could vividly imagine the Death Eaters taking down and destroying the pictures of the filthy muggles.

Upstairs was very much the same. First room, a bedroom. Second room, a study. Third room, a nursery. The fourth door looked just like every other door in the house, brown with chipped paint and rusty hinges.

The door pushed open with a creak. Stuffy air greeted him, along with the sight of the one who never came back to him.

Seamus couldn’t feel a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for kudos and the lovely comment on the last chapter! This chapter is definitely the most depressing one, I promise! In future chapters there will be more hope and love and fluff and all those goodies. 
> 
> I honestly could've posted this chapter days ago, as I only made very minor edits, but I was... busy. For the last week my life has pretty much revolved around The Witcher 3: Blood and Wine, and The Queen's Thief -bookseries, so shout out to them for stealing all my time and thoughts.


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